


Hold My Heart

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, domesticity kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: Right now, her husband has his back to her (and what a lovely back it is) while he puts his elbows on the counter, scrolling down allrecipes.com on his laptop. And it’s a moment that she never might have had, if it weren’t for Stiles, Scott, Kira, Malia, and Allison, Allison, Allison. They had done everything they could to keep her sane, to get her out of Beacon Hills, to save her life.And now she’s watching Scott McCall’s second daughter toddle from the couch to the armchair before grasping onto it and then promptly falling down in shock. And that little girl, with her short blond hair and soulful brown eyes, just like her father’s, is a miracle in herself— more miraculous than the supernatural, by every definition.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It has been way too long since I wrote a fanfic. I just sorta... needed this, and it came pouring out, so I hope you love it as much as I do!
> 
> This has absolutely zero plot or conflict. If you are looking for those things, this is not the place at all, and I apologize profusely for this piece of trash fanfic. However, if you are like me and enjoy domesticity, welcome, weary traveller! Here is my humble offering that was initially supposed to be 5k. But, well. Best laid plans, am I right? 
> 
> Thank you so much to Ashley, reyskywalkerrsolo on tumblr, for beta reading this. I love you, girl. Also thanks to Kay (stilesbanshee on tumblr) for encouraging me throughout the process of writing this. You were amazing and made me smile so much. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by Arms by Christina Perri, which is where the title is from, as well as the opening and closing lyrics. 
> 
> If you are interested in hearing the playlist that I listened to on repeat while I wrote this, inspired by both Stydia and this fic, [click here!](https://play.spotify.com/user/stydiacast/playlist/3IhtZ74xyuDg1Z8opebsrH)I made this for me, but it's got some great Stydia songs both from the show and beyond, so I thought I'd share.
> 
> I am rongasm on tumblr and writergirl8 on twitter, if you wanna fangirl!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> <3 Rachel

_The world is coming down on me and I can't find a reason to be loved_   
_I never wanna leave you but I can't make you bleed if I'm alone_   
  
_You put your arms around me_   
_And I believe that it's easier for you to let me go_   
  
_I hope that you see right through my walls_   
_I hope that you catch me, 'cause I'm already falling_   
_I'll never let our love get so close_

  
_You put your arms around me and I'm home_

* * *

 

Lydia is just about to lock the door to her office when she hears it.

"Um, excuse me, Dr. Stilinski?"

For a moment, her hand freezes on the door handle, eyes closing as if the student would be unable to see her with her lids clenched shut. Then she opens her eyes again, unlocking her fingers from around the door handle with great effort and turning around with a fake smile plastered on her mouth.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, eyes landing on a student from one of her seminars.

"I was wondering if I could go over my last paper with you," the kid says hopefully, his eyes bright with hope.

"Of course," Lydia says, annoyance curdling in her stomach. Seriously. She'd had _plans_. She was going to go home, grade some papers, and change into Stiles' Mayday Parade sweatshirt that he never lets her wear.

"Thanks," beams the kid. His eyes sweep down from her face and her neck until they land on her breasts, which are peeking out underneath the slightly open buttons on her shirt, then slide back up to her eyes as he quirks a confident brow at her. "I could _really_ use your help."

And, no. No thank you.

"Actually," Lydia says, smiling tensely, "Office hours ended ten minutes ago, and I was just about to head home to my husband. My door will be open again on Thursday. Try not to be late this time around."

From the way his cheeks flush red, he gets her message loud and clear, and knows she received his. She spins around on her heels and walks confidently down the hallway, not bothering to turn back to see if the kid is pissed.

After all. Lydia has a home to get to.

The condo is only ten minutes from campus, but impatience tugs at Lydia the entire way there. Her four and a half inch patent leather heels have been killing her feet since her second class of the day. She likes to pace back and forth during lectures, holding a long pole in her hand, half for fun, half to whack the board to make a point or to slam the stick against the desk of a sleepy grad student. But today, the pacing had stopped, and Lydia had phoned-in her lectures as much as possible.

Tomorrow is a lab day, and she can't wait. The lab is the reason she does this— does everything. Lab days are the days that she springs out of bed and dances around the bedroom to whatever song Stiles is playing on their speaker while he sits in bed, scrolls through twitter, and tells her to get him out of bed in "five more minutes, no matter _what_." (This almost always ends with her climbing onto his stomach and rapping her closed fists lightly against his chest until he groans halfheartedly and steals a kiss before pushing her off, but Lydia never complains about that.)

But her research grant indicates that she has to teach two classes a semester, and even though Lydia has PhD candidates doing the grunt work for her, she still doesn't look forward to teaching days, because it means walking away from her precious chemicals and leaving them in the lab for twenty-four hours. Sometimes she sneaks into the lab during her lunch break, a fact that Scott never fails to tease her about when he texts her with a question on his own break.

The front door is unlocked when Lydia gets there. She can hear Luke barking even as she walks up the stone stairs and steps into the condo, immediately getting greeted by their small Norfolk terrier. The first order of business is to swoop down and pick him up, nudging the door with her hip as she kisses the top of his head. Her second task is to dramatically kick off her heels, for once not caring about where they land. They lie scattered on the hardwood floor of the front hall, and Lydia maneuvers around them as she pads across the floor and steps into the carpeted living room, searching for a familiarly messy brown head of hair.

She finds Stiles on the couch, facing the wall and staring at it, his phone in his hand, fingers brushing antsy over the screen.

"Hi," she says brightly, waiting for his usual puppy-like response, but the one that follows is almost jarringly reticent.

"Hey," he replies slowly, drawing out the 'y.'

"Uh-oh." Lydia walks closer, frowning at her husband even though he isn't looking at her. "What did you do?"

Stiles looks up, confused.

"What? Nothing!"

"Okay." She points to the dog. "What did _he_ do?"

"Luke is _innocent_."

"This guy? Never."

Stiles sighs, sitting up on the couch as Lydia comes over to sit next to him. At the last minute, she changes her mind and crawls onto his lap, setting the dog down before wrapping her arms around Stiles' neck and kissing him on the nose. He grips her hips and just looks at her for a few moments while she patiently waits for him to tell her what's wrong.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Shai walked for the first time today."

Lydia's eyes brighten.

"She did?"

She's excited, but Stiles still looks downtrodden, staring down at his fingers where they rest at her hips.

"Yeah. She did."

"And you're… upset about this because it means catching her and blowing raspberries on her stomach will be marginally more difficult?" guesses Lydia, probing him.

He almost smiles. She _almost_ gets him.

"I'm just… I don't know, Lydia, we missed Brie walking for the first time because we were so far away. And we said we could catch it with the next kid, but now it's the next kid and we weren't there _again_."

"So let's go," Lydia suggests. "Get up, grab your keys, and we'll go."

"We can't," Stiles says dejectedly. "We don't have a place to stay in Beacon Hills ever since my dad sold the house, and it's already so late. We'd be exhausted during work tomorrow if we left now."

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, suddenly feeling guilty for staying a few extra minutes at her office hours.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Lydia murmurs, leaning forward to kiss him on the apple of his cheek. A little lipstick smudges onto his skin, and she gently wipes at it with her thumb. "We'll get the next kid, okay?"

"You know, eventually Scott's going to stop making kids."

" _Never_ ," jokes Lydia. Stiles rolls his eyes. "We'll ask him all about his impregnation plans when we visit this weekend, hmm?"

He seems a bit more content at that, straightening up and bouncing his knees so that she jiggles a little in his lap. Stiles reaches up and removes her black reading glasses from their perch on her nose before he kisses her hello, reaching behind her to snag the clip from her hair and toss it to the other end of the couch.

"How was work today?" he asks. He begins to comb through her hair while it unravels from the bun it's been in all day, and his fingers feel incredible against her scalp as he touches her softly.

"I wanted to be at home."

"Same," Stiles says, laughing. "We should go to bed early tonight. You have lab tomorrow, yeah?"

"I do, but we both know we're terrible at that."

"By 'we' you mean 'me.'"

He nailed that on the perfectly upturned nose.

"You never shut up when you're not tired enough to go to sleep."

His hands slide back to her hips and he dumps her off of his lap, onto the comfortable cushions of the couch.

"If I can't shut my mouth tonight, I welcome you to sit on it."

She doesn't really have a problem with that.

"Oh, is that so?"

He's grinning cheekily at her as he gets up and walks over to the kitchen.

"The video's on my phone," Stiles adds, throwing it to her, and Lydia catches it before swiping her way through his over-complicated password and pulling up the video that Scott had excitedly texted to Stiles, using too many typos and exclamation points. She'd tease him for behaving this way when it isn't even baby number one, but the truth is, having moments like these feel like small victories to Lydia as well.

Right now, her husband has his back to her (and what a lovely back it is) while he puts his elbows on the counter, scrolling down on his laptop. And it's a moment that she never might have had, if it weren't for Stiles, Scott, Kira, Malia, and Allison, Allison, Allison. They had done everything they could to keep her sane, to get her out of Beacon Hills— to save her life.

And now she's watching Scott McCall's second daughter toddle from the couch to the armchair before grasping onto it and then promptly falling down in shock. And that little girl, with her short blond hair and soulful brown eyes, just like her father's, is a miracle in herself— more miraculous than the supernatural, by every definition.

"She looks _way_ too impressed with herself," Lydia calls to him from the living room, once she's watched it twice through.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, chuckling to himself a little bit, and she hears him turn the sink on. "Hey, what do you want me to make for dinner?"

Lydia gets off of the couch and walks over to the kitchen, unzipping her pencil skirt as she goes. She has to have it dry cleaned anyways, so she lets it crumple on the ground and goes to sit in the kitchen to watch Stiles cook.

"Whatever you want," Lydia says gamely, because it seems like he'd had a worse day than she had.

"Pasta," Stiles says, wiggling his hips to imagined music. Knowing what he wants, Lydia unlocks his phone again and slug her way through his extensive spotify playlists, looking for something that she won't hate. "With _alfredo_ sauce."

She settles on an Oasis song, and Stiles jumps out of his skin when the opening sounds of waves crashing against the shore resound loudly through the speakers. Lydia ignores this, instead choosing to address the bigger issue at the hand.

Because, seriously. Alfredo sauce?

"Oh, so basically the most caloric meal of all time."

"At least I'm not making garlic bread." He pauses. "I should make ga—"

"No."

He stops talking, his brow crinkling before he shrugs and says, "Okay, Mrs. Stilinski. You're the boss."

Then he walks over to the freezer and takes out the garlic bread.

* * *

 

It's late afternoon by the time Lydia pushes her plush leather chair away from her desk and yawns broadly, stretching her arms towards the ceiling. Through the gauzy drapes that hang by the window, she can just see the afternoon sun ducking shyly into the horizon, getting lost in the rows of houses and cars and messy, complicated lives, the whispers of which are rooted deeply inside of Lydia's being. But right now, she's relaxed and happy and she doesn't have to worry about that.

Instead, she folds her glasses neatly onto the desk and closes the door of the study behind herself as she leaves, not wanting Luke to get his wet little nose into her freshly graded papers. He likes to hop up on her plush chair, his nails scraping all over the leather, and scratch eagerly along her desk, claws and tongue wrecking the carefully scrawled script on essays. Lydia had learned this the hard way.

The aforementioned scoundrel is, suspiciously, nowhere to be seen as Lydia walks across the house from her office to the master bedroom. She assumes he's sitting by the door, mournfully waiting for Stiles to come home, and decides to draw herself the bath that she's been daydreaming of all day. Being hunched over research papers is good for no one's back, and Lydia is no exception. Her bones ache, so she makes sure to add extra bubbles before she tosses her hair into a messy bun, wiggles out of her t-shirt (okay, Stiles' t-shirt), and steps carefully into the bathtub, dragging her book along with her.

She's only a few pages in when a voice loudly proclaims "Hey, I'm ho _oo_ me!" and Lydia sighs, knowing that her day of peace has finally come to an end. Still, she remains quiet, eyes skidding hopefully across the page before the bathroom door bursts open and Stiles appears around it, cheeks a little ruddy from the cold of outside. He looks around the bathroom, searching for her, until his eyes finally land on her sitting in the bathtube, her book resting on the tray that hovers above the water. "Cool. Naked, wet, and soapy Lydia. One of my personal favorites."

Without further ado, or any sort of invitation, Stiles begins stripping out of his shirt and pants, his underwear following immediately before he hops unceremoniously into the opposite end of the bathtub, forcing Lydia to cross her legs so that there's enough room for her lanky husband.

"Hi," Lydia says, placing her leather bookmark neatly in the text. "How was your play date with Scott?"

"Good," Stiles says casually, nudging her knee playfully with his foot. "We just fed some of the goats and played with the kids."

"Kids as in Scott's offspring, or kids as in goat offspring?"

"Both, actually."

"Anything else?"

"Nope," he says, corners of his mouth turning down slightly as he pretends to think. "I don't think so."

"So you didn't… oh, I don't know… go to the farmer's market with Izzy?"

"God _damn_ it, Iz."

"She's a fink."

"How come you get to make fun of me for liking the farmer's market, but when you go you're totally cool with it?"

"Because the farmer's market is a place where I can get organic coffee and homemade jewelry. _You_ go because you like free samples and think it's funny to squeeze fruit."

"You're harassing me."

"Says the man who invaded my bath."

"I'm not bugging you! It's like I'm not here," Stiles protests, and then his eyes land on her book. "Oooo. Read to me."

"You won't think it's interesting," Lydia tells him with certainty.

"What? Of course I will."

"Stiles. Come on."

"I'll find it interesting because you love it. I promise."

"You promise?"

"I do," he says sincerely. "I really do."

"Okay," Lydia says, picking up the book. "So, just to clarify, you'd like for me to read to you from a book entitled 'Molecular modelling and simulation of retroviral proteins and nanobiocomposites.'"

Stiles blinks.

"Could you repeat that just one more time?"

She's still laughing when her phone buzzes to life on the tray in front of her, the screen lighting up with the words 'Natalie Martin' and a picture of her mother smiling down at a glass of red wine. Lydia holds one finger up to Stiles, picking up her phone and pressing it against her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi, darling," sings her mother's voice. "Just calling to catch up. How are things going?"

"Pretty well." Lydia runs her finger through the water, watching the way bubbles pop and burst against the force.

"And how's my son-in-law?"

Lydia looks over at said son-in-law to see him wink at her, a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"He's good," she says truthfully, making Stiles wiggle his eyebrows.

"What have the two of you been up to lately?"

"Well, he's been trying to convince me to get another dog… which isn't happening, by the way—" Stiles pouts at that. Lydia blows him a kiss before she continues speaking. "Shai walked for the first time a few days ago. I just finished grading a group of essays, and now—"

"Oh, essays!" interjects her mother, "that reminds me, I met this _lovely_ doctoral student when I was at this charming little restaurant the other day, and _he_ said—"

This is the part of the conversation where Lydia's mother starts babbling on about something that is totally irrelevant to Lydia's life, and Lydia gets to tense up and wait for her to finish rambling and then exclaim that she'd had no idea what time it was and she has to run to the club _right now_ to meet one of the girls.

She knows Stiles sees the way her eyes are glazing over from the way his toes find hers under the water and then rub soothingly over her leg, causing her to untense just enough. Her eyes flit over to him; Stiles cups some of the bubbles in his big hands and presses them innocently against his chin, creating a white beard. Lydia snorts, and his smile widens in delight as he surveys the water for a moment, then scoops up more bubbles and pats them into his cheeks, widening his mouth slightly. It takes Lydia a moment to realize that he is attempting to imitate her nightly moisturizing routine, and she retaliates by putting her mother on speakerphone.

"—and _then_ I realized that the dress was abso _lutely_ the right size, it was just the _color_ that was throwing me off, so—"

"Mercy," mouths Stiles, throwing his hands up. Lydia victoriously turns speakerphone off, sparing him only because she loves him.

He's good for about two seconds, patting his hands innocently against the top of the bubbles, trying to get enough force to make little slapping sounds against the water. But then he gets bored again, and ducks down to blow bubbles as if he's treading water, eyes just visible at the top of the water, staring at her too wide. He straightens up, muses for a second, then settles on bobbing his head back and forth and loudly mouthing the lyrics to Under the Sea.

Lydia flattens her lips and narrows her eyes, at which Stiles positively _beams_.

For the rest of her conversation with her mother, he amuses himself by making funny shapes in his hair— first a ghastly Flock of Seagulls type-haircut, then spikes, and finally a very tall mohawk that sends her into war flashbacks from the height of his hair in high school.

(On the phone, her mother has begun to talk about her trip back to Beacon Hills to grab some stuff from the old house, which she hadn't bothered to sell before migrating to warmer weather.)

"And I was actually driving past the Stilinski house, you know, and I was very surprised to see that it was on the market."

Lydia snaps to attention at that.

"Sorry, mom, what house?"

"Stiles' old house," she says. "It's funny, because didn't Noah just sell it two years ago? But I asked around because, well, naturally I was curious, and it turns out that the family got pregnant again and decided to move somewhere a little bit bigger. So it's on the market now."

Lydia blinks, processing. Stiles' childhood home in Beacon Hills is for sale.

Interesting.

"Do you know if—?"

"Oh, speaking of Beacon Hills, did you _hear_ about how much taxes have gone down?"

She isn't sure how she would have phrased what she'd wanted to ask with Stiles right here anyways, so she cuts her mother off mid-sentence, a little rudely, but whatever, it's been twenty minutes already.

"I have to go, mom," Lydia says, her eyes on her husband as he tries to make himself tall enough to inspect his appearance in the bathroom mirror, curling the top of the mohawk over his fingers. She hangs up the phone, shaking her head emphatically at Stiles, who grins.

"I was thinking of doing the Marge Simpson look if you didn't hang up soon."

"Hmmm," Lydia says, pretending to be thoughtful as she takes his hand and brings it to her mouth, pressing a kiss against his closed fist. She removes the tray from the bathtub and sets it on the ground. "I don't know," she continues. "I'm not sure you could pull it off."

"Well," he begins, as Lydia moves forward to press her lips against his, placing her hands on his chest. "I just wouldn't do it _blue_."

"Oh, right. Crimson red is more your style."

"Go tornados," Stiles agrees flatly, raising his fist in a mock pump. Then he frowns. "We keep saying we're going to go back to Beacon Hills and see a game."

One of Lydia's hands trails gently down Stiles' chest as she smiles at him.

"We'll go soon," she murmurs. "I promise."

She reaches over to the round soap dish at the side of the bathtub, tosses the bar of soap into the water, and then fills the dish with water before pouring it over Stiles' head. He splutters. Splashes her. Lydia feels her body laughing more than she hears it as she undoes Stiles' goofy mohawk and then throws the dish to the side so that she can rearrange his hair into a more savory shape.

"Happy?" he asks, pretending to be grumpy. But her hands are softer in his hair, just stroking tenderly now.

"Mhm. You look very handsome."

He preens a little bit, and she kisses his eyebrow.

"I don't think I asked you how _your_ day was," realizes Stiles.

"It got better as of about thirty minutes ago."

He gasps, teasing her.

"That's when _I_ came home."

"Hmm, right. Around then."

"What a crazy coincidence."

"The craziest."

Stiles kisses her briefly before saying "Sorry I ruined your bath" against her lips.

"You didn't," Lydia tells him easily. "You ruined our floor, probably, but not my bath."

Stiles peeks over the side of the bath.

"There's not _that_ much water down there."

"Towel."

"Right-o." He's up in a flash, hurrying out of the bathtub and grabbing the towel that Lydia had intended for herself. Stiles wraps it around his waist, then leaves the room and comes back a few moments later with a few towels to mop up the water, along with the dog, who squirms happily against his chest. "I figured he could lick up some of the water," Stiles says, putting Luke down on the floor.

And Lydia was absolutely crazy for thinking that she was going to be able to get any work done once Stiles came home. Honestly, that was on her.

Sighing, she pulls the plug on the bath and watches the water drain away, only a little forlornly. When she looks up, Stiles is holding a towel open for her to step into and is staring quizzically down at the dog, who is sniffing around the water on the floor like he doesn't know what to do with it.

The nature of this gesture— that something so thoughtful could be so thoughtless to him— makes Lydia melt as she steps into the towel and lets Stiles rub his hands absently up and down her arms.

Meanwhile, Luke is pawing at the water on the floor, seeming very concerned by it.

"This plan is going just about as well as all of your other ones do." Lydia smirks as Stiles opens his mouth wide in horrified protest.

"Hey! Remember when I had the plan to marry you? That went _swimmingly_."

"That was my idea."

"Wh—? How was that your idea?"

"I said yes."

"But it was m—" he begins protesting, and in a flash, Lydia is pulling a Stiles, flattening her lips goofily and wiggling her brows at him before she breaks into a run and dives for their bed, squealing with laughter when he throws himself onto it with her a few moments later, tickling her until she finally uses her powers _just_ enough to push him off.

"Unfair disadvantage," protests Stiles, breathless from laughing. "I'm a tiny human."

"Overruled," states Lydia. "I'm a tiny banshee."

As he launches into a long rant about why he deserves to win their nonexistent fight, Lydia nods along, pretending to listen, and makes a quiet promise to herself to drive down to Beacon Hills the next day.

She needs to check on a few things.

* * *

Lydia's knuckles are white as she squeezes her fingers tightly around the buttery leather strap of her favorite coach purse. As she takes a deeper step into Stiles' childhood home, she can't help but curl her fingers even tighter, as if holding onto the red handle of the bag will keep her from feeling like a part of her has fallen off of the earth.

In a way, it feels a little like betraying Stiles to be here without him. She's half expecting to see the seventeen-year-old version of him bounding down the front hall to smack a dramatically loud and wet kiss on her cheek. But there is no such greeting— instead, Lydia progresses quietly into the house and tries to perceive this moment with logic and ration.

There's nothing logical about this, though, and perhaps that's what makes Lydia feel so nervous. She knows that Stiles wants a house that is closer to Scott, that they can afford this place with their combined income and her trust fund, that Stiles likes this place, that it is for sale, that it is packed with memories that make her want to smile and make her want to sob.

And that, of course, is exactly why she simply _can't_ approach this moment devoid of emotion. There's never been anything logical about how she feels about Stiles. He's the one who had convinced her, without even trying, that falling in love had no rhyme or reason. He's the one who made her question how she felt about marriage and soulmates and what it meant to feel safe.

This house is irrefutably a home, and it always has been. But now there are children's toys tucked neatly into a toybox; blue blankets draped over the back of the leather couches; pictures in the foyer of children who Lydia has never seen. As she walks through to the kitchen, she feels a strange ache in her heart at the sight of other people's things in the house that is _Stiles'._ Nobody else's. It's Stiles'.

She knows, because there's still pieces of him everywhere. The skidmark on the staircase from his skateboard. The permanent marker on the living room floor from when he was three years old. The little dent in the bottom of the wall by the front closet from the time he accidentally slammed his lacrosse stick into it when he was wildly gesticulating. The long scrape near the outlet in the kitchen is from Lydia's hairpin as Stiles had held her against the wall with his hips and she had knocked her head back as she moaned, letting him give her a hickey even though she knew she'd hate him for it later. (She remembers that story particularly well because they'd heard the scrape of her clip against the wall, looked at each other in alarm, and then Stiles had growled "fuck it" and dipped his head back down to resume what he'd been doing. A few minutes later, she'd made him come from rubbing herself against him, and she'd tumbled after him only minutes later when he slipped to the floor and unceremoniously ducked his head under her skirt.)

Someone else's things might be in the house, but it's still Stiles'. Lydia knows that for sure.

"It's got a lovely little breakfast nook," the real estate agent is saying, gesturing towards the table near the corner window. "Perfect for looking outside and watching the sun. It's a very family-friendly street, you know, so there's also some adorable children who play outside during the summer."

Odder than thinking of someone living in Stiles' house is thinking of people in Beacon Hills playing outside during the summer. Lydia can recall doing so when she was a little kid; can remember sticky popsicle juice slipping down her elbow and capturing fireflies in a jar with her older sister, marvelling at that something natural could emit so much light. After a while, the children in Beacon Hills stayed inside even before dark, and light became Allison's smile and Kira's excited midnight ramblings about a TV show she liked and kickboxing with Malia and Scott's comforting hand squeezes and Stiles snaking his arm around her waist from behind so that he could tug her closer to his body— always, always closer.

The real estate agent is still talking as Lydia moves closer to the breakfast nook and runs her fingers lightly over the tabletop.

"It also has a _very_ spacious kitchen, perfect for making family meals— do you cook a lot?"

"Mmm, no," Lydia says absently. "My husband does the cooking."

"Well, I'm sure he'll love it," replies the real estate agent, enthusiastic. "Now, if you'll just follow me, I'll take you through the living room and to the downstairs office."

She knows, instinctively, that the office isn't an office at all. It's Stiles' bedroom. That's Stiles' bedroom. That's the place where he'd told her he'd go out of his mind if she died. That's the place he'd unwrapped a piece of yarn from her fingers and thrown it to the side. That's the place where he'd told her story after story about growing up with her while she mapped out his skin with curious, tremulous fingers. That's the place where he'd taught her how to make love and how to _stay_ in love until suddenly it became a limb and she hadn't been sure when she had begun to not be able to live without it.

"That's not necessary," says Lydia quickly. She turns slowly around the kitchen in her black heeled boots, wondering why it is so hard to breathe in this kitchen. She feels a _need_ to be closer to it burning through her veins; a need to make this place hers the way it once was. She wants to see it bathed in the light that they feel now, in the airiness, instead of desperately. When her eyes land on the real estate agent, she's already made her decision. "I'd like to make an offer."

* * *

Lydia is supposed to go home.

She is supposed to make the drive back to her apartment with Stiles near the college at which she works; she is supposed to be home in time to eat the dinner he is making her; she is supposed to marathon the new season of his favorite show with him while she repaints her nails. It's going to be a good night— or it was supposed to be.

Except she might have fucked up, and she's not sure what to do about it.

Instead of taking the exit onto the highway, Lydia grits her teeth and keeps driving through Beacon Hills. Her heart is pounding insistently against her chest as she pulls up to Scott's vet clinic and throws the car into park. For a moment, Lydia allows herself to catch her breath. Then, upon realizing that it isn't happening, she shakes her head and practically bolts from the car to the door, barrelling through it and calling Scott's name.

"Lydia?"

He appears from the back room, wearing his white lab coat over a clean blue shirt that Lydia's pretty sure she'd bought for him. There's already concern on his face, and she's relatively certain that it isn't for the cat that's wiggling in his arms, annoyed.

"Scott," she says again, relieved now. "You're here."

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyes searching her face as though the answer is written in the lines and crinkles of her worry.

In the end, Lydia thinks it might be better to just say it.

"I bought a house," she bursts out.

Scott's expression clears at once.

"You guys bought a house? Oh, man, congratulations, Lydia! That's great!"

"No, no." She shakes her head quickly. "I put down an offer on a house. A whole house. Without asking Stiles."

Scott's face slides to blank.

"Uhhh..."

Lydia's heart sinks a little in her chest.

He stares at her. The cat squirms. Lydia decides to take off her coat, revealing a pale pink blouse tucked into a pencil skirt. She feels smooth and crisp and _adult_ , ready to be decisive and in control. However, the last hour has been anything but logical, and—

"Oh my god, I bought a house without asking my husband?"

Scott nods emphatically. Lydia slides into the chair by the door, hiding her face in her hands.

"Maybe your offer won't get accepted?" Scott suggests.

"Of course it will, I have _superb_ credit," snaps Lydia impatiently.

"I didn't even know you guys were looking."

Lydia ignores this, more concerned with the flood of thoughts that have suddenly begun flitting through her mind.

"I don't think I've ever seen Stiles get madder at me than a six. Is this a ten?"

"Naaah," Scott says comfortingly, crouching onto the floor in front of the Lydia. He ponders for a moment, then shoves the cat into her arms. "This is an eight at _best_. Ten is, like, you killed his dad with a lightsaber and ruined Star Wars for him forever."

"Plus… killed his dad."

"Right, that too!" agrees Scott brightly. Lydia groans and shoots out of her chair, beginning to pace across the front of the clinic, petting the cat's furry head. It purrs against her, but she ignores this, choosing instead to focus on stomping back and forth across the linoleum in her black stilettos. "Lydia," Scott says hesitantly. "Why exactly _did_ you decide to buy a house without consulting Stiles?"

The cat leaps from her arms, just soon enough for Lydia to throw her hands up in exasperation.

"I don't know, Scott! I mean, I was there and it was… I just went to see if I wanted to _talk_ to him about it, I didn't think I was going to buy it… but I was there and I was remembering all the stories he told me about when he was a little kid, and this house is _his_ , Scott, it's Stiles', and it feels so wrong that somebody else would own it, and just the other day he was talking about how he wants to live closer to you and the girls and I felt like it was _my_ fault because he wasn't near you guys, and it's only twelve minutes away from your farm, I counted, okay? And—"

"Hang on," Scott says, standing up and abruptly cutting her off. Lydia stops pacing. Stares at him, eyes a little wild, expression so bare that she can tell he's startled. Even after all this time, it's still in her nature to tuck her feelings away when she can manage it. Every facial expression is always smaller than what she truly feels in the depths of her mind, and Scott, who can smell her emotions, knows that better than anyone. But right now, she knows that he can see everything on her face, and not even her carefully curled hair can hide the panic she feels. "Did you… did you buy Stiles' old house?"

Lydia nods at him, breathless.

"Yes."

"The one that Stiles' dad sold a few years ago?"

"Yes," she says again.

"129 Woodbine Lane."

"Yes, Scott!" barks Lydia, frustrated now.

He blinks. Plops down into the chair that Lydia had just vacated.

"Shit."

Her hands are wringing together as she stares at him, waiting for him to react more outwardly. And if Scott McCall is swearing, that's a _big_ deal. So, in summation— she's _fucked_.

"Can I move in with you when my marriage ends?"

"Unless you want to _finally_ have to change a diaper after all this time—" (Lydia shudders) "I'm going to have to say that you might not want that to happen." His voice softens. "Besides. It's Stiles. He loves you so much, Lydia, there's no way he's gonna get _that_ upset over this."

Lydia turns to glare at her best friend.

"You heard the part where I bought a house without talking to him about it first, right? You were there for all that?"

"Yeah, okay, but it's _Stiles'_ house. He loves that house. He almost cried when his dad sold it, remember?"

She places her hands on her hips, worrying her lip between her teeth.

"I remember," says Lydia softly.

"See?"

Scott gets off of the chair, scooping the cat off of the floor and scratching her head before he walks with her into the backroom. Lydia follows, arms still crossed over her chest as she contemplates the best course of action. Eventually, she settles on this:

"Tell me what to do."

With a needle poised right near the cat's neck, Scott pauses.

"Why _me_?"

"You've known him longer!"

"You're his wife."

"You can smell emotions."

"You're smarter than I am."

"Not with _people_!" she says, frustrated, and Scott's eyes soften.

"You're better than you think," he says. He performs the shot quickly, then rewards the cat with a treat and lowers it gently into a cat carrier before closing the door and going over to Lydia. He wraps his arms around her, giving her a warm, Scott bear-hug before kissing her right on the forehead. "You'll be fine," he tells her, steady confidence in his voice. "Stiles loves you more than he loves anyone."

She thinks about it on the way home, her fingers a little looser on the steering wheel. She's got a lollipop shoved between her lips, courtesy of Scott's front desk, and _Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me!_ is playing on NPR right now. When she doesn't think about it, Lydia is almost convinced that things are going to be okay.

Almost.

But it's dark when she gets home, and Stiles is lying on the floor with the dog perched on his stomach, and they're having a staring contest. And when she crawls onto the floor with the two of them, pushing Luke off of Stiles so that she can straddle him, she knows she should tell him. She knows. Instead, she frames his face with her hands and kisses him. Asks him how his day went. Promises to spend the entirety of tomorrow on the couch with him, wearing sweats and eating breakfast foods _only_.

And maybe it would easier not to tell him tonight. She'll tell him another time. Monday, maybe. Or Tuesday. Just… not tonight.

* * *

For some reason, Lydia's body clock wakes her up at 5 o'clock in the morning on her anniversary.

Their bedroom is illuminated by the bluish hue of a world that hasn't quite woken up yet. It is quiet outside of the window, and it's quiet next to her as Stiles breathes deeply through his mouth. Lydia glances over at him, wondering if maybe something he'd done had startled her awake, but he is sleeping without any of the usual symptoms of restlessness that signify his distress.

Once she starts looking at him, she can't bring herself to tear her eyes away.

Stiles is lying on his back, his hand shoved up the front of his t-shirt, his eyelashes brushing his skin. When Lydia swipes her thumb underneath them, she can feel the delicate bone under his eye pressing against her skin. Carefully, she trails her hand down his cheek, finding her favorite mole by his earlobe. Softly, she presses her lips against it, meaning to kiss him good morning and then get out of bed so that she can leave him to sleep in peace.

But he looks so lovely like this, so peaceful, and five years. She has been married to this man for five years of her life.

Lydia often thinks that if she felt the strength of her affection as constantly as Stiles feels his, she would be driven to distraction every day of her life. Luckily, she is frequently able to keep it at a low simmer— meaning that, when it does flare up, it is consuming. And right now, looking at her husband's sleeping form, the urgency of loving him moves from a soft and constant flicker to flames that are high and bold and lick against her skin, heating her up from inside out.

She slithers down the bed languidly, without even considering it, like a sigh is effortlessly leaving her body. Ducking under the covers, Lydia presses a kiss against each of Stiles' hipbones before gently tugging his pajama bottoms down his legs. He's hard, sleep-warm, and familiar in a way that makes her smile as she grips him lightly in her hand, tracing it up and down the length of him. It's warm under the covers, but in the chilliness of the morning, Lydia can't bring herself to mind. All she can focus on is the hum she releases as she gets Stiles in her mouth. She bobs her head up and down a few times, feeling something in her chest loosen with the ease of it all. Then she releases him long enough to place a kiss on the trail of hair over his navel, up to just above his belly button, up to his heart.

Lydia's hair trails down Stiles' body as she slides back down the bed, a small, relieved moan at the back of her throat as she gets his warm length back between her lips. She lightly scrapes the nails of her left hand over his hip, a gentle tickle over his skin while her other hand massages what she won't take into her mouth. She's in the process of gently running her tongue up and down the same spot on the underside of his cock when she feels two hands lightly stroking her hair.

"Good morning," says a sleep-rough voice, and that's when Stiles peels back the covers, revealing his sleepily lidded eyes and mussed up hair.

She releases his dick with a purposefully cheeky pop and says, "Good morning to you too," before kitten-licking up his length, her tongue flat and thick against him as she maintains careful eye contact.

"If you wanna do this instead of setting an alarm," says Stiles, placing his hand over Lydia's where it rests on his hip, "I want you to know that I'd be okay with it."

Her tongue drags teasingly over his slit and she takes a small amount of his tip before she hums out a soft, "Noted," and then goes back to sucking on his head. The hand covering hers squeezes tight, until he suddenly speaks in a low growl.

"Stop fucking _teasing_ , Lydia."

She almost wants to giggle at the desperation mixed with sternness, but instead she looks innocently up at him and runs her tongue over her bottom lip.

"Me? Tease? I would never."

"Yeah, you're serious as a heart attack," he says sarcastically.

"Oh, did you want me to be serious?" asks Lydia, pretending to be confused as she strokes his cock lazily. "Is that what you want, honey?" Stiles nods, his hands rubbing up and down her arms like he can't help but touch her at every opportunity possible. "Okay, then," she says, swallowing him as deep as she can. Stiles lets out a long, low groan, his hips jerking in surprise. He buries his hands in her hair, still biting his lip, and Lydia relaxes her throat as she slides her lips up and down his shaft, watching the way his brows twitch and his tongue constantly goes after his lip.

"Oh god," he mumbles shakily, entwining their fingers together and rubbing his thumb over her skin. It's a tactic to keep himself from coming too soon, focusing on her skin instead of himself, but she can tell he's getting close by the way his thighs are shaking where she lies between them. "Oh god, Lyds, that's so fucking good."

And that's when Lydia decides that it would be very prudent to hum 'Here Comes the Bride' onto his cock.

"Fuck," he shouts out, then covers his face with his hand as he starts laughing, sliding up the headboard into a seated position. "Yeah, happy anniversary to you too."

"I was done being serious," Lydia says decisively. She crawls up his body, kissing him for the first time that morning, hand on his dick still. Stiles' fingers curl over her cheeks, and he kisses her exactly how he feels about her— delicately, like she's precious and tender and irreplaceable. "What do you say to a little more teasing?" she asks huskily.

Stiles swallows, and she watches as he succumbs to the voice that she's using, a small shiver jumping against his abs.

"Lydia," he murmurs as she presses one last kiss against his lips before straightening up and pulling her tank top over her head. She's straddling him, so she carefully moves over him and drags her wet folds up and down his cock, hissing whenever her clit hits his skin just right. Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back, as Stiles' hands curve around her hips and then slide up her body, wrapped around the sensitive skin at her ribs.

She's always liked how big his hands feel on her body, gripping her hips or clinging to her wrist or brushing his fingers against her legs. Stiles never makes her feel small in anything but touch, and that's when she feels safest— when he's wrapped all the way around her, reminding her that there are bigger things in the world than her stressors and fears.

But right now, all he's reminding Lydia of is how much she loves it when his hands are on her skin. The rough, calloused fingers that he loves to entwine with hers, the solemn kiss that he places on the open palm of her hand when he grabs it and brings it to his mouth for just a moment. When he finally covers her breasts with his hands, scraping the rough pad of his thumb against her nipple, she feels something in her head click steadily, easily, simply into place.

"Oh, _yes_ ," exhales Lydia, raising her hands to place them over his, keeping his warm, rough palms on her breasts. "Mmm, _Stiles_."

She's already wet from sucking him off, but then he leans up to kiss her sternum, then her chin, and it makes her fucking _gush_. Because as sexy as her husband is to her, it's the little ways he loves her, the tenderness and the open affection, that make her want him the most. She can get fucked by anyone. But nobody fucks her the way Stiles Stilinski does, and it makes her breathless, sometimes.

Lydia can't resist anymore. She grips him firmly and finally slides onto his dick, her moan harmonizing with Stiles' relieved gasp. She has to fight back a smile as she begins sliding up and down his dick, rolling her hips so that he hits the place inside of her that she likes best. She has one hand on his chest and one braced against the headboard, sliding up and down against the wood slightly as she moves. Stiles' hands rub up and down her legs, occasionally sliding up her waist and touching her hair.

"Can't believe I get to wake up next to you every day," he says, stuttering it out like he's embarrassed— she thinks it's more that he's sex stupid, overwhelmed by the warm clench of her body around his. "Can't believe you married me, Lyds, love you so fucking much, never stopped loving you, never gonna stop, not ever, I _love_ you."

"You're _sappy_ on our anniversary," Lydia pants, leaning down to duck her head into his neck and press kisses against it. She nuzzles into him, still moving up and down his dick. "I think I expected five years to make you less sappy."

"You're just shit outta luck," Stiles says, and when his hands move from her hips to cup her ass, Lydia knows what's coming. "But my sappy-ass is gonna make you come so good."

He begins snapping his hips up into her, changing the easy pace that Lydia had set with her body. She whines into his neck, fingers finding his hair and stroking. The sound of their skin slapping together makes her clit pulse, and Lydia can't help reaching between the two of them and circling her fingers around her clit.

"StilesStiles _Stiles_."

"Hang on, hang on." Stiles stops moving, panting a little. "I wanna see us."

She frowns at him, pouting a little petulantly because she had been so goddamn close, but Stiles doesn't pay her annoyance any mind. He gets off of the bed, patting it with his hand, his eyes bright and eager. Lydia slides curiously to the edge, watching him closely as he wraps his long fingers around her ankles and drags her closer to him. When her legs are straddling his sides, Stiles lets go, and Lydia locks her ankles together, catching up and grabbing a pillow for behind her head.

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, looking up at Lydia with hope in his eyes. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and nods, and he grips himself and slides into her with a guttural groan. His eyes are fixated on the place where their bodies meet, watching his cock slide in and out of her. Lydia leans up on her elbows, whimpering as she sees it, and immediately tosses her head back when she becomes overwhelmed. "Oh, shit, that's hot. You're so hot, Lydia, with your tits moving like that, and your body taking mine all the way in. I'm gonna come so soon. I'm gonna come inside of you."

"Do it. I want you to, I want you to, _please_ , Stiles."

She wants it so bad; can feel how close she's getting; can feel herself clenching tighter around his cock as it slides home to her again and again. Lydia sucks on her fingers before she moves her hand down to her clit, touching it desperately, wanting to come with Stiles, but he shakes his head.

"No," he says sharply, his hips stopping. "It's our anniversary and _I'm_ making you come."

She blinks dolefully up at him, still rubbing her clit.

"But I'm so close, and if you just—"

"No," he tells her again, sliding almost all the way out and teasing his tip at her entrance. It's a far cry from how he'd been feeling inside of her, so thick and right and _perfect_ , and Lydia wants to whine at him but she'd done her fair share of toying with him already this morning. She has no leg to stand on.

"Okay," she concedes throatily. "Only you make me come."

He pushes back in with a small, satisfied smirk, and leans all the way forward to kiss her and stroke her hair. His tongue is in her mouth, his hand heavy and hot on her hip, as he empties himself inside of her, letting her lips swallow his moan up.

Stiles gives himself a moment to catch his breath, during which Lydia brushes his sweaty hair out of his eyes and kisses every piece of skin that is remotely reachable to her. Then he pulls out of her and sinks to his knees in front of her, sliding two fingers inside of Lydia. To her disappointment, he pulls them out immediately, sliding them into his mouth and closing his eyes at the way their combined flavors taste in his mouth. Then, without further ado, he pulls her legs over his shoulders and presses his mouth against her with a hungry grunt, wasting no time as he ruthlessly brings Lydia all the way up and then makes her come, her back bowing off of the bed as she cries out his name.

He kisses his way up her body, starting at her ankle and ending up on the bed with her, wrapping his arms all the way around her and pulling her into him while both of them catch their breath. His face must be buried in her hair, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind. He always seems to be content to simply be holding her, so still and so _okay_ , reminding Lydia at the best moments of the person Stiles had escaped becoming so that he could be this for her.

"So," Lydia says, turning into him and kissing his sternum. "Do you forgive me for waking you up at 5am?"

Stiles yelps, pulling out of their embrace.

"It's five in the _morning_?"

"Did you think it was night?"

"No, I thought I had a wife who wouldn't wake me up at 5 o'clock in the _morning_."

"I guess the mind numbingly good sex didn't make it worth it, huh?" asks Lydia coyly. Stiles opens his mouth to answer indignantly, then snaps it shut, nostrils flaring as he considers this, head tilting to the side.

"It _was_ pretty good sex."

"Mhm."

She kisses his sternum again, running a hand down his chest.

"Any chance you're hungry?"

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

"I think that's a pretty safe bet."

"How about you take a shower and when you get out I'll have an omelette ready for you?"

She frowns.

"That is a deceptively enticing plan. What's the catch, Stilinski?"

He considers for a moment.

"The omelette will be made not by me, but by the rodeo clown I've been hiding in our front hall closet as an anniversary gift."

"Will he at _least_ clean the dishes?"

"You bet."

"Square deal," Lydia decides, sliding out of bed and walking over to the bathroom, completely in the nude. She adds an extra spring to her step, feeling Stiles' eyes on her. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

A few minutes, when it comes to Lydia's showers, means forty-five, and by the time she gets out, Stiles has the kitchen table set, a bouquet of daisies at the center.

"Cards on the table, I got bored and ate all the bacon," he tells her remorselessly, showing her the empty plate as proof. With her wet, braided back hair and the long Stanford t-shirt that brushes the tops of her thighs, Lydia can't bring herself to care. She tugs the glass of orange juice that Stiles is holding out of his hand, leaning all the way up on her tiptoes to kiss him before taking a sip of his drink.

"Regardless, it smells delicious," she says, indicating to the omelette on the table. "Bozo did a wonderful job."

"Are you calling me a bozo?"

"Actually, I was continuing with the clown joke you made earlier," Lydia says, spearing her fork into the omelette and taking a bite. God, it's amazing. If he wasn't her husband, she would probably be furious about the fact that Stiles is such an incredible cook when she can't even make instant oatmeal. "But now that you mention it…"

He digs his fork into his own egg, munching exaggeratedly.

"I can't hear you; I'm protected by melted cheese."

There's a bit of cheese on his chin, and a goofy smile at his lips, and there's _daisies_ on the table. He's wearing the same ratty pajama bottoms that he'd been wearing when they had just turned twenty-one and they got tipsy and got out of bed to jump in puddles in the rain.

He's her best friend. The one who can always make her laugh when he wants to; the one who gets her to smile the most frequently; the one who understands her boundaries and limits even when Lydia can't quite put them into words. He's the one she'll dress up for when they go out to dinner, curling her hair softly and putting on necklaces that dance tantalizingly against her cleavage. He's the one she comes home for, the one who she wants to curl up on the couch with, her makeup scrubbed off and her hair tossed carelessly into a bun as she wiggles comfortably into one of his hoodies.

She's been keeping a secret from her best friend from far too long.

"Come on," Lyda says abruptly, standing up. "I have to give you your present."

He frowns, mouth full of omelette.

"Can it wait?"

She knows her answer with certainty.

"No. Now. Get dressed." She walks briskly out of the kitchen, meaning to go get dressed, but thinks better of it, sticking her head back into the kitchen for one brief moment. He's still sitting at the table, looking a little confused. Lydia can't help but smile with her eyes; can't help the way they soften at him. "Happy anniversary, Stiles."

* * *

"I know what your present to me is," Stiles sings when they're halfway to Beacon Hills. His hand is grasping hers over the console, and his hand is stuck out the window, floating through the air and making Lydia shiver in cold. She's letting him play the radio a little bit too loud because she likes the way he absentmindedly sings the lyrics that make him think of her the most, and the way he keeps pausing in his humming in order to try to fix his hair one handedly as it gets ruffled by the wind.

"You do, do you?" Lydia replies, a nervous lurch in her stomach despite the fact that she knows he can't possibly know that she bought them a house.

"Oh yeah."

"And, pray tell, what is it?"

He sucks in a huge gulp of air before releasing it in a satisfied, contented way.

"We're going to Beacon Hills," he says, very self importantly, as though he is informing her of this fact out of the goodness of his heart.

"Oh yes."

"Soooo…"

"So?"

"So we're finally gonna fuck in coach's office."

Lydia laughs.

"We did that in high school."

"It was just third base, both times. I'm talking about, like, actual hot-and-heavy desk sex, during which I tell you what to do and spank you with a ruler and ask you if you want to earn some more extra credit."

They both know he's joking, but the huskiness of his voice escapes the notice of neither of them.

"Nope. Not that," says Lydia cooley.

"Umm… ummm… uhhh… locker room sex, then? Oh, and you're the nerdy but brilliant and beautiful high school student, while I'm the star of the basketball team but I really just want to sing, and—"

"No, we're not having sex in the boy's locker room."

He raises his hands into the air helplessly.

"I'm out, then."

"After just two goes? Come on. You can last longer than _that_."

"What can I say? You've stumped me."

She smiles to herself.

"Good."

He kisses their joined hands and a part of her wants to melt and tell him right then and there. She _hates_ hiding things from him. It feels like she's wearing a different skin than the one she has become so comfortable in. She'd been so afraid to tell him before, but now that it's actually about to happen, she just wants it off her chest. She wants to look him in the eye and tell him that she did it— she bought his dad's house, and they can deal with the ramifications later.

Instead, she abruptly changes the station when a song that Stiles hates comes on the radio, and she squeezes his hand a bit tighter.

"Almost there," she says a few miles down the road, and they don't talk for the rest of the way there. Her favorite moments are the talking ones, but she also loves that they can sit in silence together and not feel the need to fill it. Stiles Stilinski is always, endlessly moving. He is a livewire of energy; of humor; of knowledge; of affection. He is never, ever motionless. But then his hands are on her body, and he is soft and still and suddenly soothed. She loves it when he's quiet around her, because it _means_ something. It matters. She is his security blanket, his anchor, his love. His wife.

And because of that, he trusts her. He might even trust her enough to make this decision without asking him.

This could be more than just okay.

Almost subconsciously, Lydia begins to speed a little more, making her way through the streets until finally she ends up pulled in front of the house, her stomach in knots. She watches his face carefully, taking note of the confusion on it, and the hesitance. He turns his head towards her, the unspoken question resting in his eyes, but Lydia just shakes her head and steps out of the car.

"Come on," she says quietly to him, stretching her hand out. He grabs onto the dark gold sleeve of her sweater and holds it tightly, following her across the grass. He still looks befuddled, but his eyes are on her as much as hers are on his. They're just staring at each other, at a stalemate.

"Lydia—" Stiles says when they get to the front door, but then she reaches into her purse and pulls the key out of it, holding it up between the two of them, eyes on Stiles' startled face. He blinks three times in rapid succession, staring at the key that is clasped between Lydia's dark red nails. Then he delicately plucks it from her fingers and holds his breath as he fits it into the door. She watches him unlock the house, then open it and step in.

It's empty.

The heels of Lydia's boots click loudly against the floor, echoing across the house. She shivers a little in the cold, wishing she'd brought a jacket. Her hands find her arms as Stiles walks ahead of her into the house, eyes darting curiously around it. He looks at the blank walls and bare rooms and the wallpaper that is different from the one that his mother had picked out when they first moved in. His eyes sweep over the same dents and scrapes that Lydia had found; the stories that are embedded into her husband, making him who he is. This is the house that made him, this person she loves so much, and in that moment, Lydia knows that she doesn't regret buying it.

She takes a step forward. Smoothes her dark red skirt down. Then clears her throat and begins to speak.

"I want to live here," she says boldly, not sure where the strength of her voice is coming from. "With you. I want us to live here." Stiles turns around. Stares at her. "Not… not _full_ time, or anything. But…. well, it's only twelve minutes away from Scott's, you know, and five minutes away from your dad's place. And you were so sad when Shai walked and you weren't able to see it… I just… I kept thinking that if we had a house in Beacon Hills, it wouldn't be a problem. Your work takes you all over the state anyways, and you're around here _all_ the time, and if I plan my schedule in a certain way, I can take lab days off and just do paperwork from home. So when I found out that this place was on the market again… well, I just wanted to _see_ it, to see if, you know, if I would want to buy it? But… then I was here and there's that scrape along the wall from the time we were making out when we were eighteen and I just couldn't help it, and… oh god, can you _say_ something?" He closes his eyes. Holds up his index finger, telling her to wait. "Wh… what are you doing?"

"Shhh," Stiles tells her, eyes still closed. "Just… basking."

Lydia tilts her head to the side, wrapping her fingers nervously in the fabric of her sweater.

"Stiles?" she tries again.

"I cannot fucking believe," he says slowly, "that all this time, you have been pretending to be the _logical_ and reasonable person in this relationship, but you're actually just as sentimental as I am."

She gapes at him.

"I am _not_ sentimental."

His eyes pop open. "You bought an entire house because we made out in it."

"Well… we also had _sex_ in it," she says stubbornly, stamping her foot.

"Do you think you're helping your case with that?"

"Um, no."

"Just making sure."

Stiles grins, moving towards her, grabbing her around the waist. Lydia stubbornly refuses to look at him, making him bend to her level and nudge his nose against hers, dropping a kiss on it before he pulls back.

"Hey. You finally did something irrational and idiotic."

Her arms remain crossed over her chest.

"So?"

"So I love you even more for it. And I kinda didn't know that was possible."

She melts just a little. Just enough for Stiles to easily pry her arms apart, wrapping them around his body and placing them at the top of his ass over his jeans.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"I think that you, Lydia Stilinski, are a genius."

"That's _doctor_ Lydia Stilinski to you," she says, voice still a little stiff.

But Stiles reads right through her, and he chuckles.

"I love it, Lyds. Seriously. This is… incredible, actually. Thank you."

He fits his mouth to hers, warm and gentle and tender as his fingers sneak under the fabric of her sweater, splaying across the bare skin of her back. She lets her hands drift lower on his ass, tugging him closer to her, and Stiles bends a little deeper, opening up her willing mouth with his tongue. Every time he kisses her like this, it feels like he's trying to memorize the moment. Like he's afraid it will slip away from him, even though he has woken up every morning for the past ten years in a bed next to Lydia.

She thinks that maybe he clutches on so tight because of all the times he was torn away from her. Even now. _Especially_ now, when there is so much to lose.

"So," Stiles says, pulling back to speak with a rough, seductive voice. "Do you already have a pintrest board of decorating ideas, or…?"

He trails off as she swats him on the shoulder, her smile stretching wide across her lips. When she notices that he's got some of her red lipstick near his mouth, she licks her thumb and then stands up on her tip-toes to wipe it off. Stiles rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

"You know we're not sleeping in my dad's old room, right?" he says as she wets her thumb again.

Lydia frowns.

"What?"

"I'm not fucking you in the room where I was conceived."

"It's… it's not going to be on the same _sheets_ , Stiles."

"We're sleeping in _my_ room," he says decisively, using the deeper, more authoritative voice that he uses when he's on the phone with work associates.

"Hmm," Lydia says, grabbing both of his hands and walking backwards, pulling him across the room that used to be his living room. "What iiiiff… we have one room for sleeping, and one room for sex?"

His eyes light up.

"We could finally get a sex swing."

"Oh my god. I was joking."

"No, but hear me out, Lyds!"

"We've talked about this. You would hurt yourself, and I am too young and hot to be a widow."

They finally get to the door of the room, and the two of them stand in the doorframe together, staring at it.

"Hey," says Stiles, voice hushed. "We have a house."

"Right," confirms Lydia. "We own a house."

When she looks over at him, his eyes are bright with excitement.

"So… what now?"

* * *

Shai has been carefully inspecting her cut up hot dog for at least thirty seconds.

It's not that she's never had it before— Lydia has fed her this exact meal multiple times— but she's been toddling around the house all day, hands clutching onto walls and furniture, wanting to touch _everything_. Izzy had warned them about it before she and Scott had left that morning, but not even that had prepared Lydia for Shai attempting to use the dog as a footstool with which she could hoist herself up.

She's been acting extra curious all day, which is probably she keeps prodding at her hot dog with tiny, stubby fingers, staring expressionlessly at it.

"You're supposed to eat it," Lydia tells her, hoping to be helpful, but Shai just looks at her and squints her deep brown eyes, seeming a little annoyed by the intrusion. Lydia is relatively certain that genetics have failed her so far— both Shai and Brie have the same deep brown eyes that their father often turns on her, and Lydia loves Scott too much to be able to resist them. "You… you put it in your mouth. It's a hot dog, sweetie."

Shai looks back at her tray, kicking her feet antsily against the bottom of the high chair before she plunges her fingers right into the cut up strawberry in a little dish to her side and squeezes it into her hand, shoving the strawberry into her mouth. She gets most of the juices all over her lips and cheeks. Even as Lydia sighs in ill-disguised exasperation, Shai chews happily on the strawberry, blinking up at Lydia with her long, dark lashes.

"That," Lydia says pointedly, "is _not_ a hot dog."

"Lydia!" calls Stiles' voice, echoing loudly down the front hall. She turns away from Shai to see her husband walking quickly into the room, a little extra bounce in his step. There's a pair of lime-green converse wrapped around his waist, belonging to Brie, who is currently behind Stiles' back with her arms wrapped around his neck. "Hey, Lydia," Stiles says again, "have you seen Brie? I can't find her anywhere."

From behind Stiles, there's a small, soft giggle. Lydia meets his eyes, and he smiles at her, expression affectionate. When Shai bangs her fist against the high chair tray, Lydia turns to her, nudging her cheek with a finger.

"What do you think, Shai? Do you know where Gabrielle is?"

"Malk," replies Shai.

"I think she's right," Lydia says seriously, handing Shai her sippy cup. "She thinks Brie is _behind_ Uncle Stiles."

"Behind me?" Stiles replies, scratching his head. "Huh." He whirls around speedily, making Brie shriek in surprise, her hair streaming in the air behind herself. "No, she's not here." Stiles whizzes around again. "Not here either." The little girl giggles even louder while Stiles subtly hoists her up higher on his back. "What are we gonna tell Scott?"

"We're going to tell him that she went to college," Lydia says smoothy, spooning some strawberries into Shai's waiting mouth. "Because Brie is just that brilliant, isn't she? You have a _really_ smart sister, Shai, don't you?"

Shai grabs another cut up piece of hot dog and shoves it into her mouth, contemplating this.

"I guess Brie didn't want the present we got her, huh?" Stiles says, rubbing his chin. "You'd think she would have taken it with her before she went to college."

With the promise of a present, Brie immediately starts moving her feet, kicking against Stiles' thighs. He puts on a startled expression, probably for the benefit of himself more than anybody else, and then squats to the ground so that Brie can hop off of his back.

"What present?" she asks excitedly.

"Brie?" gasps Stiles dramatically. "Is that _you_?"

"Yes!" She laughs. "'member, Uncle Stiles? You were giving me a piggy back ride!"

"That's right!" he says, smacking the heel of his hand against his forehead as though he's just remembering. "Man, I'm glad we found you. Dad would've gotten _so_ mad if we let you go off to start your own international business without saying goodbye."

Lydia snorts out a laugh, knowing that the joke was aimed towards her, and wipes at Shai's mouth with her 'I heart Grandma' bib.

"Uncle Stiles is being silly," she informs Shai very seriously, unstrapping her from the high chair and lifting her up. Shai clings onto her as they cross the kitchen, making their way over to Stiles and Brie. "Hey, I think daddy's going to be here to get you in a few minutes. How about we pack your stuff up?"

Brie rushes into the living room, presumably to go pack her toys, although Lydia strongly suspects she's actually looking for the dog to give him a goodbye hug. When Shai squirms in Lydia's arms, she sets her on the floor and allows Shai to walk slowly towards her older sister, her hand clutching onto the leg of Stiles' jeans to keep upright.

"Good strategy, feeding her right before Scott got here," Stiles commends Lydia, yawning.

"Right? No more diapers for us."

"Genius."

She laughs as the doorbell rings, causing Luke to ricochet out of the living room and into the front hall, barking insistently at the door.

"I've got it," Lydia says, as Stiles and Shai are still walking slowly towards the living room. She picks Luke up off of the floor before opening the door, revealing Scott, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a jacket, and a hat perched on his head. It looks like one of the lumpy, badly knitted ones that Melissa had started giving everybody when she took up the hobby, and it makes Lydia smile to know that Scott wears the hat even though it's probably going to fall apart any day now.

"How was your day off?"

He closes his eyes.

"So, so quiet," he says blissfully. "Thanks, Lydia."

"No problem. We're always happy to give you a few hours of peace and quiet."

The moment is interrupted by Brie dashing down the front hall towards Scott, her dark braid streaming behind her.

"DADDY!" she screams, and Scott crouches on the floor to scoop her up into his arms.

"Hi, baby," he says. "You look so pretty! Did Aunt Lydia do your hair?"

Brie nods excitedly, reaching around behind her head to show him the blue ribbon that is tied at the end of intricate braid.

"Hey, big man coming through," calls Stiles' voice, and the three of them turn to the entryway to see Shai walking unsteadily ahead of him, her brow furrowed in concentration as she takes a few steps by herself. Stiles' knees are bent, ready to catch her if she starts to tumble.

"You're doing so good, Shai!" cheers Scott, setting Brie on the floor and kneeling there so that Shai can move towards the two of them on unsteady legs. Stiles' eyes are fixed on his niece, his lips quirked up perpetually, like they're _settled_ there, like it's just natural, and for a moment, Lydia wishes she were standing next to him so that she were better positioned to observe the child-like enthusiasm in his eyes.

But if she were standing right next to him, she wouldn't be able to see the whole picture of the way Stiles loves all of them, all four of them, so much. She wouldn't have been able to see the whole picture of him diving forward to snatch up Shai in his arms right before she crashes to the ground and presses a big, wet kiss against her cheek. She's so close-up to him in every moment, it seems only right that she would stand at a distance every once in a while, watching the man he's become.

"Here ya go," Stiles is saying to Scott, handing Shai off to him. "One baby, coming right up."

"Thanks," says Scott, chuckling. "Ready to go see mommy?" he adds to Brie, who nods as Lydia opens the front door of the house, sprinting into the dark night. "Slow down!" calls Scott, but he is just greeted by a shriek of laughter. "Alright, I gotta go. Thanks again, guys."

"No problem," Stiles tells him. "We're here when you need us."

He reaches around Lydia to flick on the porch light for Scott, revealing Brie standing impatiently at the car, bouncing between her feet.

"I know," Scott says, simply and happily, in a way that makes Lydia melt a little bit. "Oh, I almost forgot— Iz wants to know if you'll come over for dinner tomorrow night."

"Sure," replies Lydia. "We'll be there."

"We promised Brie a present anyways," Stiles says, looking a little stricken.

" _We_?"

"Okay, 'I.' I did." He shrugs. "Good thing she got distracted, right?"

"DADDDDDYY!" calls Brie from the car, stamping her foot.

"Right," Scott says, accepting Shai's diaper bag from Stiles before shouldering it and turning around towards the car. "See you guys tomorrow, then!"

"See you, Scott," says Lydia softly.

She doesn't close the door to the house right away. Instead, she stands in the doorway, watching Scott talk to his children, buckling them into the car seats in his mini van. Stiles wraps his arms around her waist, dropping his chin to her shoulder and watching the three of them along with her, not speaking for a few moments as he, like Lydia, takes it all in.

Eventually, Scott is rifling through the diaper bag for a toy that Brie wants, and talking animatedly to Shai as she watches him, and Stiles finally speaks, his voice low and sweet in Lydia's ear.

"Lydia?" he says.

Her stomach clenches at the carefulness of his tone of voice, at the way it's hesitant and hopeful all at the same time. She doesn't know how she's able to read so much just from him saying her name, but maybe it's because she's spent a lifetime of hearing him say it in a million different variations.

But, somehow, just from his tone, she knows exactly what he's about to ask her. She expects to feel nervous, or anxious, or an intensely negative gut reaction. Instead, she feels settled. There's an ease that is stealing over her, and maybe it's because she's in her safe place, or maybe it's because Stiles sounds so wishful, or maybe it's because this house has come to represent the stark dichotomy between who they used to be and who they are now.

"Mhm," she replies.

Regardless of the reason, she knows now. She knows what her answer is going to be before Stiles even asks the question.

"You wanna make something new?"

* * *

 

_I try my best to never let you in to see the truth_   
_And I've never opened up_   
_I've never truly loved till you_

_You put your arms around me_   
_And I believe that it's easier for you to let me go_   
  
_I hope that you see right through my walls_   
_I hope that you catch me, 'cause I'm already falling_   
_I'll never let our love get so close_

_You put your arms around me and I'm home_

_You put your arms around me and I'm home_


End file.
